“Yes, sire; as complete as that of the Bridge of Ce.”
“Four men, one of them wounded, and a youth, say you?”
“One hardly a young man; but who, however, behaved himself so admirably on this occasion that I will take the liberty of recommending him to your Majesty.”
“How does he call himself?”
“D’Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends—the son of a man who served under the king your father, of glorious memory, in the civil war.”
“And you say this young man behaved himself well? Tell me how, Tréville—you know how I delight in accounts of war and fighting.”
And Louis XIII. twisted his mustache proudly, placing his hand upon his hip.
“Sire,” resumed Tréville, “as I told you, Monsieur d’Artagnan is little more than a boy; and as he has not the honor of being a Musketeer, he was dressed as a citizen. The Guards of the cardinal, perceiving his youth and that he did not belong to the corps, invited him to retire before they attacked.”
“So you may plainly see, Tréville,” interrupted the king, “it was they who attacked?”
“That is true, sire; there can be no more doubt on that head. They called upon him then to retire; but he answered that he was a Musketeer at heart, entirely devoted to your Majesty, and that therefore he would remain with Messieurs the Musketeers.”